


Camping

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aceness, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Camping, Domestic Fluff, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 14:05:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9238220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: Sylvie wants to go camping, so she does, and she's awesome at it.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princeyoungjaes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princeyoungjaes/gifts).



Athos nearly topples over, getting his shoes off. Sylvie watches him through the little round zip door of the outer cubby hole, and laughs uproariously when he finally crawls through and collapses face-first on the blanket she has spread over the plastic groundsheet. The tent is one she found in the attic, and apparently it had belonged to d’Artagnan, for festivals. Or possibly Aramis from the time he went cycling in France, or Porthos, or Athos. No one could remember. Now it belongs to her. She’s set everything up, filled the sleeping pod with all the blankets and duvets and the blow up mattress, got a bunch of torches from the Poundshop, as well as chocolate bars for snacks. She’s filled this outer pod with cushions and the blanket and the books they’re reading, and the torch-lantern she found alongside the tent. She brought playing cards, too. It’s perfect.

Athos doesn’t show any signs of getting up, so Sylvie sits on him and pulls his feet in, zipping the outer and then the inner doors. The lantern’s on even though it’s not very dark, and it’s sort of cosy. It’s comfy on Athos’s back, so Sylvie stays where she is, contemplating her temporary home. Athos eventually heaves himself up onto all-fours, with her still on his back. She laughs and clings on, waiting for him to steady before getting off and letting him up, sitting among the cushions instead. He sits beside her and she at once uses him as a back prop.

“Looks nice in here,” Athos says. “I walked for miles and miles to find you.”

“Ah, is that what the dramatics were for?” Sylvie says. “Thank you for walking the miles.”

Athos sings a short burst of the Proclaimers in an unusual fit of musical romanticism, which makes her laugh again. He gives her a squeeze, so maybe that was his intention. She covers her mouth and looks up at him, beaming.

“Thank you for coming camping with me,” She says.

“Well, it wasn’t like Porthos was ever going to do it,” Athos says. “It’s so rare that I can get better boyfriend points than him. He’s so damned thoughtful of everyone all the time.”

“Mostly he’s just thoughtful of you, really,” Sylvie says. “He insults and ignores the rest of us all the time.”

“He’s a Hufflepuff, they insult and ignore no-one,” Athos says.

“Zachariah Smith. Justin Finch-Fletchley. Ernie Macmillan,” Sylvie says.

“What did Ernie ever do?”

“Be a pompous git,” Sylvie says. “Everyone liked him despite it, though, whereas everyone was mean to Percy for it.”

“Are you having sad Harry Potter thoughts again?” Athos asks, amused but solicitous.

“His whole family teases him when they know he doesn’t like it, and he’s so protective of his younger siblings, and I just like him. Also, Harry Potter is sad. Everyone knows what the Dursleys are like and no one does anything.”

Athos wraps his arms around her, still amused (she can tell because he’s vibrating with suppressed laughter. And he’s always amused), but also cuddling her very affectionately. Like she’s the greatest.

“We can leave socks for Dobby when we go to the studios,” Athos says. “Next week.”

“Next week! So soon?” Sylvie asks, sitting bolt upright, excitement coursing through her.

“So soon,” Athos says, not stifling his laughter, this time. He brushes her hair out of his way and cradles her cheek. “I love how excited you get about little things.”

“This is a big thing,” Sylvie retorts, pulling away from him (he just lets her go and rests his hand against her shoulder instead) and reaching for her book. “Shall I read it to you?”

“Yep,” Athos says.

He settles cross-legged and puts a cushion in his lap for her head, and she lies down, getting comfy. She likes how he touches her when they’re like this, little affectionate touches, against her cheek, her shoulder, playing with her hair, leaning close to her. Like he can’t quite help it. He’s always gentle about it, which is what she wants, really. Just this gentle intimacy, his quiet and his attention. She likes having his attention on her. She smiles up at him, and he leans down to press a warm kiss to her forehead, right smack in the middle.

“We’ve only got a week, so we’ll have to speed up,” Sylvie says, opening the book to the first page. “The two men appeared out of nowhere, a few yards apart in the narrow, moonlit lane. For a second they stood quite still, wands directed at each other’s chests; then, recognizing reach other, they stowed their wands beneath their cloaks and started walking briskly in the same direction. ‘News?’ asked the taller of the two. 'The best’ replied Severus Snape.“

“Knock knock,” someone calls from outside.

“Who’s there?” Sylvie calls back.

“Let me in, my hands are full,” Porthos grumbles.

“That’s not much of a punchline,” Sylvie says.

She puts the book aside and crawls over to open the doors. Porthos peers in and smiles at her, then carefully passes her a tray of plates, cutlery, glasses, and napkins. Sylvie rolls her eyes but passes it on to Athos. Porthos vanishes again, back through the darkening garden to the house. He returns with a oven dish of casserole, juice, vegetables, and salad on the tray.

“Careful, it’s hot,” he says, passing it to her.

Athos sets everything up on the blanket, like a picnic, and Porthos crawls in after her, sitting with his bum in and his feet out to take off his trainers. Sylvie waits for him to get in properly then shuts both the doors, closing the evening out.

“This is a better way to camp,” Athos says, helping himself to food, loading his plate. “Mm. Did you make the cheesy lentil one?”

“Yep,” Porthos says. “Are you reading Harry Potter without me?”

“You read it yesterday,” Sylvie says. “That’s what happens when you don’t wait for the read aloud version by moi. We leave you out.”

“I could read it and listen to it. Do both,” Porthos says.

Sylvie heaps her own plate and sits between the boys, using Porthos to rest against. Athos is right- this is a good way to go camping. She’d wanted to go to the seaside, or at least a campsite, but this is better. Porthos never would have come, and this way they get him in with them, and good food. Athos tells Porthos they’ve only read the first paragraph, and he cheers up enough to go get a bottle of wine, and to spend the evening sprawled among the cushions with them, listening to her reading.

Sylvie likes reading out Harry Potter to Porthos and Athos. She likes reading out loud in general, but they’re so appreciative and attentive, and even Porthos, who is sometimes a little impatient with her when she’s excitable about things sometimes considered childish, loves her reading. They all love Harry Potter, too. It’s how they met. They had an argument on Livejournal about whether Charlie Weasley is canonically ace. Sylvie hadn’t forgiven Athos for his opinion until months later when they finally met up and Athos admitted that while he didn’t think of Charlie as ace, his friend Porthos had convinced him that Remus and Sirius were aro/ace life-partners. Porthos refuses to read the end of the fifth book, he gets too sad about Sirius dying. Sylvie doesn’t get why he’s never sad about the end of the seventh. Everyone dies. But Porthos just shrugs cheerfully and gives her snuggles when she cries about Fred. Athos laughed the first time he saw her crying about Snape dying, but then she hit him with the book and now he hugs her too, and gets her chocolate.

They get through the wine, and Athos gets through a lot of it on his own and sprawls on top of Porthos, pulling her with him so she can lie with her head on Porthos’s biceps. Athos is limp and humming and running his hands over Porthos’s sides. Sylvie ignores it, he always gets a bit handsy when he’s tipsy, and keeps on reading aloud. It’s the wedding, which Porthos loves. Sylvie loves the bit with Charlie and Hagrid singing in the corner, Porthos likes the Luna bits. She’s Athos’s headcanoned ace, but Porthos adores her. Sylvie likes Hermione, in this final book. She’s so clever, and bookish.

“Why is it I always end up being a cushion?” Porthos asks, muffled by Athos’s hair, when Sylvie pauses to check the time.

“You’re soft and comfy and we love you,” Sylvie says. “It’s bed time. Do you want to sleep out here with us?”

“No. It’s cold and hard and not my bed,” Porthos says, giving her an incredulous look. “You’re both mad.”

“Snuggling in a nest of blankets,” Athos says.

“You’re drooling on me,” Porthos says, pushing Athos away, hand on his forehead.

“ _I’m_ not,” Sylvie says, sitting up and helping Porthos get Athos off him.

Porthos sits with his feet out again, and gets his trainers back on. The tray, stacked with all the dinner things, he leaves behind for them to deal with. He pulls her into a hug, before he goes.

“I know I’ve been impatient about this camping thing. I just can’t be bothered with all this,” Porthos says. “I’m glad you’re excited and happy, and that Athos wants to do this with you so you have company.”

“And so you don’t have to do it,” Sylvie says, laughing, hugging him back. “It’s ok. I’ll forgive you, especially if you do us breakfast.”

“Warm you up after the madness of sleeping outside,” Porthos grumbles, letting her go and crawling out into the garden, dark now. “Goodnight, Athos.”

“Night,” Athos mumbles, curled up among the cushions and already almost asleep.

Sylvie shuts up the tent doors and opens the sleeping pod, putting the lantern in there instead. She nudges Athos until he crawls through to the nest, and she follows, shutting them in. She curls around him, pressing her face to his warm skin, and snuggles them in among the blankets, pulling a duvet over them and switching off the lantern.

“I can’t wait till pride, this year,” Sylvie says, around a yawn. “I haven’t had a person to go with, before, and now I have two. I’m going to dress in the ace flag.”

“Good,” Athos murmurs. 

“Did you used to go, with Porthos? As queerplatonics?” Sylvie asks. 

“I don’t like people, Porthos can’t be bothered,” Athos says. 

“You’ll both come, though, right? With me?” Sylvie asks. 

“Obviously,” Athos says, waking up a bit and turning in her arms, embracing her. “Just like we’re going to Harry Potter world with you.”

“Harry Potter Studios, and stop lying. This is Porthos’s fifth time, and your second, and you both love it. You’re not doing it for me.”

“Hmph. Fine. Not like that, then. Porthos tends to dress up for pride, by the way. Just a warning. He used to anyway, I’ve seen the pictures. Cosplaying.”

“Who’s his current obsession?” Sylvie asks. 

“The costumes he’s working on are Madam Vastra from Doctor Who, and a new Sirius Black one,” Athos says.  

“I can be Jenny,” Sylvie says. “You can be Strax.”

“Who’s Strax?” Athos asks, and Sylvie giggles, refusing to tell him until he swears he’ll dress up as Strax no matter what. 

He gets sleepy again, after that, stroking her back and shoulders. She dozes, thinking about pride, and Harry Potter, and Doctor Who, and then about Athos, and Porthos. It isn’t cold, in the tent. It’s warm, with Athos so close, and knowing the house is near. It’s safe and cosy, and warm 


End file.
